Ask For Ronald Standish

by Sapper

  “The whole thing was an elaborate and carefully planned plot to make Palliser a reality. When Follitt was not in Woking, Palliser was in Birmingham. And vice versa, Follitt, realising that there is nothing so noticeable about anyone as missing teeth, had two plates made, from one of which he removed two conspicuous ones. That also had the effect of making him speak with that peculiar hissing intonation. And when Parker heard them, as he thought, talking to one another, it was Follitt talking to himself and changing the plate each time. As I say, just a carefully thought-out scheme to allow Mr Follitt to be burned beyond recognition, and then draw the insurance money as Mr Palliser. For the fact remains, Bob, that if we hadn’t been in time and young Parker had been burned to death, the evidence of Follitt’s dentist as to the false teeth would have been conclusive.

  “You shall now stand me lunch and I’ll let you off the fiver.”

  2: The Silent Victim

  Petersdown Towers was a large, rambling, old-fashioned house lying in the heart of West Sussex. Elizabethan, it was one of the few places where the Virgin Queen was not reputed to have stayed the night, though Sir James Ardingley, the fourth baronet – if rumour was to be believed – had not been unpleasing in that august lady’s eyes. The grounds were extensive: the shooting good without being first class. And, like most houses of similar size today, its capacity for absorbing money was incredible.

  The existing baronet, Sir Hubert, had long discovered that annoying fact. As a captain in the Guards he found it increasingly difficult to combine his expenses with his income; the property seemed to be an inexhaustible sink for cash.

  And yet nothing would have induced him to part with it, even if he could have found a purchaser. Sooner or later, it being bred in the bone, he would go back to the home of his forefathers, till in the fullness of time he was buried alongside them in the family vault. And until that day arrived who could look after the old place better than his uncle, William Ardingley? A blood relation, reared, in the house himself, he loved it as if it was his own. And if sometimes his demands seemed extravagant, they were in a good cause.

  William Ardingley was a man of fifty-five, and owing to a rather strange chain of circumstances he had spent fifty of them in Petersdown Towers. His elder brother John, Hubert’s father, had come into the title when he was twenty, and the two of them had lived together till John married ten years later. Of that marriage two children were born – Hubert and, a year later, his brother Philip, who was now a lieutenant in the Navy. And in giving birth to Philip, Lady Ardingley had died, leaving her husband with the two infants.

  For three years he carried on alone, though her death had very nearly broken him up. He had idolized his wife, and small wonder; a more lovely girl it would have been difficult to find. And the mere thought of replacing her never even entered his head. But after a while the loneliness began to tell, and he suggested to William that he should come back again.

  William had been agreeable, and for another three years the two brothers joined forces. Then came the next tragedy: Sir John was killed in a motor accident and his son, aged four, became the baronet. Very naturally William, after consultation with the family lawyers, stayed on in loco parentis, until Hubert came of age, when the two of them discussed the matter at length, though the upshot of the matter was a foregone conclusion.

  Hubert, though he adored the place, did not want to bury himself in the heart of the country for many years to come. Philip was in the Navy: Hubert was an Ensign, and though money was getting tighter there was still sufficient and more than sufficient for Hubert in his regiment, and a good allowance for Philip. So William remained on, ostensibly as agent, though practically as owner, and the two boys came down when they wanted to and leave permitted.

  Such then, in brief, was the state of affairs in the Ardingley family during the years that followed the war. And such might have been the state of affairs today but for the terrible tragedy of last July. It is only after careful consideration, and fully discussing the matter with Ronald Standish, that I have decided to put on record the real facts. And though these words may never see the light of print, it will at any rate be something to have the truth available, in view of the mass of malicious rumour that still surrounds the whole affair.

  It was on Eclipse day at Sandown – I remember that Ronald and I had argued as to whether we should go or not – that the story starts. We had decided not to and were just going in to lunch at the club when we ran straight into Hubert, who joined us at our table.

  “Heard the latest?” he asked us as we sat down. “Uncle William has gone batty.”

  “What’s the matter with him?” said Ronald studying the menu. “He was quite normal the last time I saw him.”

  Hubert laughed.

  “So he seemed to me until he told me the news. My revered uncle is going to be married. Can you beat it?”

  “Really!” said Ronald. “I must say that is a bit of a shatterer. I’d have put him down as one of the most bullet-proof bachelors I’ve ever known. Who’s the lady?”

  Hubert’s grin faded, and I regret to state that his answer might have led one to suppose that our discussion concerned a kennel.

  “She’s the daughter of a retired doctor who has settled down in the neighbourhood,” he continued. “By name of Plessey – Violet Plessey. She’s a good looker for them who likes her type, but she’s just about as hard as they make ’em. However, that’s old William’s funeral. As things stand he’s running round in small circles eating out of her hand.”

  “How’s this going to affect you, Hubert?” I asked.

  “That’s just the point, Bill,” he answered. “Quite a lot, I’m afraid. One thing is certain: it will mean a complete change of our present régime. And that is always annoying.”

  “You mean you don’t want the lady at Petersdown Towers.”

  “Just so. Even if she was one of the brightest and best it wouldn’t be satisfactory. I shall probably do likewise myself some day, and by that time they’d be thoroughly settled in. Besides, there may be some little Williams. No – anyway it wouldn’t do, but in this case it is out of the question. Nothing would induce me to have Miss Violet Plessey in the house, though I’m not exactly relishing the idea of letting her know same.”

  “Does she expect to stop on?” asked Ronald.

  “I really don’t know, old boy. So far I have held no converse with the lady on the subject. Nor do I propose to. It will have to go through Uncle William, and I’m afraid it is going to be a bit of a pill for him to have to uproot after all these years. Still, if he will go plunging into matrimony he can’t hold me responsible.”

  “He’ll probably suggest remaining on till you plunge yourself,” I said.

  “Well, he ain’t going to, Bill. As a matter of fact, though this is between ourselves, apart altogether from this marriage I’m afraid there would have had to be a change. Things are so tight these days that I don’t see how I can stop on in the regiment. It means I’ve got to keep a show going here in London, and my tastes have never been exactly of the ginger beer type.”

  “Still, if he wasn’t getting married, he could have stayed on with you,” remarked Ronald.

  “Sure thing. We get on damned well together. Look here,” he said, struck with a sudden idea, “are you two blokes doing anything this weekend? If not, why don’t you come down with me and give me your moral support. You know the links, and there are always some bunnies.”

  “I’d like to, Hubert,” said Ronald. “What about you, Bill?”

  “So would I,” I answered, and Hubert got up.

  “Good,” he said. “Come round to my place at four. I shall be interested to get your reaction to the fair Violet.”

  And so it transpired that at half-past five we rolled up to the massive doors of Petersdown Towers to find Walters, the old butler, waiting to receive us.

  “This is a bit of a surprise, Walters,” said Hubert as we got out.

  “You mean about Mr William,
Sir Hubert. It is indeed, sir.”

  He turned away, and Hubert gave us a wink. Quite obviously Walters shared his master’s opinion of the lady. And yet, when we met her shortly afterwards with William Ardingley, my first impression was favourable. She was of medium height, and her figure was superb. Good-looking too in a rather flashing style, and evidently determined to make a good impression on Hubert, who was going through the usual formalities of congratulation.

  Then a third person appeared on the scene, and a glance at his face showed where he fitted in. The girl’s likeness to him was obvious, but I found myself wondering whether he had given up doctoring or doctoring had given him up. The water shortage, so far as his diet was concerned, could not have affected him greatly.

  Father and daughter went off shortly after to change, as they were returning to dinner, and we four men went into the billiard-room for a drink. Through the windows one could see the great stretch of rolling park, leading up to an avenue of magnificent copper beeches. In the foreground lay the lake, and on its surface floated two graceful swans with cygnets in attendance.

  The home of the Ardingleys for centuries: assuredly Hubert was right. To leave it all after fifty years was not going to be an easy matter. And even as the thought crossed my mind I heard William speaking about it.

  “I think I’ve found the very house that will suit us, Hubert,” he was saying, and I glanced at the baronet. His face was expressionless, but one could sense his profound relief. To have the thing settled voluntarily by his uncle was more than he could have hoped for.

  “Of course you will stop on here as long as you like, Uncle William,” he said.

  “Thanks, my dear boy. If I may I will stop till it is ready. It will be a bit of a wrench leaving here, after all these years, but one can’t have everything. Well – I must write a couple of letters before dinner.”

  He paused as he reached the door and looked at Ronald.

  “You fellows know, don’t you, about the dog? He lives near the stables and he’s on a chain, Don’t go near him, whatever you do.”

  “Rollo,” explained Hubert as the door closed behind his uncle. “A mastiff the size of a donkey, and the most savage brute you can imagine. Uncle William and one of the grooms are the only people who can touch him. Like a game of anything?”

  We played slosh till it was time to dress, and at eight o’clock we sat down to dinner. Two other people had come in, and I found myself sitting next to Violet Plessey.

  There was no doubt about it: she was an extraordinarily good-looking girl. I admit that it did strike me – though I am a child over women’s clothes – that she was a little overdressed for such a small party, but the fault was excusable. She was on Hubert’s left, and once again she went out of her way to be charming to him. Sensing, as any woman would do, that he did not like her, she seemed determined to break down his prejudice, and towards the end of the meal she had succeeded, at any rate so far as appearances went. Once I saw William looking at them, and wondered if he was wise to his nephew’s feelings; then an interminable story by the doctor on my other side necessitated some semblance of attention.

  “I hear Mr Ardingley has a house in view,” I said to the girl when Hubert turned to the woman on his right.

  “Yes,” she answered. “A sweet little place. We shall be terribly poor, you know.”

  I murmured some conventional reply: actually that aspect of the case had not struck me. In my thoughts I had got no farther than the fact that William would have to leave Petersdown Towers, but now that she mentioned it I realised the financial side as well. Though the revenue from the estate had been entirely Hubert’s since he came of age, his uncle had to a great extent enjoyed the benefits of it, as much as if it had been his own. He had lived rent free and food free; he had had no servants’ wages to pay. And now all that was going to stop.

  “It is about ten miles from here,” she continued. “I do hope William won’t miss this too much.”

  “He’s been here a long time,” I said.

  “He adores the place,” she answered in a low voice. “Positively adores it. Sometimes I think…”

  But what she thought I was not to know, for at that moment Hubert stood up, glass in hand, and in a few words proposed the health of the happy couple. The doctor emitted a porty heart throb about his little girl, and we all drank to their future prosperity. After which she again monopolised Hubert, and the doctor continued the history of his life.

  Strange as one looks back now, on that evening, how difficult it is to remember anything of interest. I suppose that it is because it was such a perfectly ordinary evening that there are no pegs which stick out. I remember that Philip was mentioned: I remember Hubert saying that there would be no difficulty about his coming to the wedding as he was only stationed at Invergordon.

  I remember, too, that of all strange subjects the conversation came round to walking in one’s sleep, and William asking Hubert if he ever did it now.

  “You and Philip,” he said, “were very bad at one time.”

  Which naturally the doctor, being that manner of man, found irresistible, and bet that Hubert had not given it up by a long chalk, it being a most convenient malady at times. It was then that I began to dislike the doctor actively, and to realise that if there was anything in heredity Hubert might be right about the girl.

  But apart from those two things I remember nothing, because as I said before there was nothing to remember. The guests departed about eleven; half an hour later we all went to bed, Hubert in particular stating that he was most infernally sleepy.

  I was not, and for quite a while I sat beside my open window, smoking. It was a pitch dark night, overcast and warm. Ronald and I had adjacent rooms in the west wing, and I could hear him moving about as he went to bed. At last he drew back his curtains and I saw his shadow outlined in the square of light on the ground below.

  “Night, night, Bill,” he called out, and at that moment we both heard it. Rising and falling in a hideous cadence there came from the other side of the house the deep-throated baying of a hound. Twice, three times; then we heard it no more.

  “The Pekingese seems excited,” he said. “I think there’s going to be a storm.”

  His bed creaked: his light went out, but still I sat on feeling strangely awake. An owl was hooting mournfully and occasionally a little eddy of breeze made the leaves rustle in the trees near by. Save for that – silence: a brooding, oppressive silence.

  Suddenly lightning began to flicker in the distance followed by the muttering of thunder. It was a long way off, and I was just wishing that it would come over us to cool the air when a very vivid flash lit up the grounds. And there, standing under a tree on the other side of the drive, was a man. I could not see his features, or anything else about him; all I knew in that instantaneous exposure was that someone was there.

  For a while I debated whether I should wake up Ronald; a man in the garden at that hour of the night was probably up to no good. And then there came another flash; there was no one there. The nocturnal visitor had gone, and I began to wonder whether my eyes had deceived me in the first instance. At any rate it settled the question of arousing anybody; to look for someone outside on such a night would be like searching for the proverbial needle in the hay. And so, after one final cigarette, I switched off the light and turned in.

  A hand on my shoulder awakened me, and I sat up blinking. Daylight was streaming in at the window, and Ronald, his usually ruddy face chalk white, was standing by the bed. Outside people were moving about, and instinctively I glanced at my wrist-watch. It was half-past five.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Hubert is dead,” he answered in a shaking voice. “He’s had his throat torn out by the mastiff.”

  Too stunned to reply I could only stare at him foolishly, and wonder whether I was dreaming. Then I got out of bed and pulled on some clothes.

  The servants were standing about in little huddled groups as we w
ent downstairs to the hall where William Ardingley was speaking to a groom. He turned round as we came up and in the early morning light his face looked ghastly.

  “My God! Standish,” he said. “I can’t believe it. I simply can’t believe it. It was Rogers here who found the poor boy.”

  And so we heard the story. Rogers, looking out of his window, had been appalled to see a sprawling figure in pyjamas lying on the ground near the mastiff’s kennel. Blood was all over the place, and he could tell at a glance that the man was dead. He had rushed down and pulled the body out of the hound’s reach, and then to his horror he had realised it was Sir Hubert.

  “Let’s go and have a look,” said Standish quietly, and I followed him outside to the stables. In one corner stood the kennel, and on the ground covered with some sacks lay the dead man. And he was a terrible sight. His throat was torn and gashed in the most dreadful fashion, and the jacket of his pyjamas was saturated with blood. It had, of course, ceased to flow by that time, but an ominous pool near the kennel showed where the unfortunate baronet had met his end. His feet were bare, and I thought of the conversation at dinner. Obviously he must have been walking in his sleep.

  “Do you mean to say, Rogers,” said Ronald as the groom and William Ardingley joined us, “that you heard nothing at all?”

  “Not a thing, sir. But a mastiff kills mute.”

  “It doesn’t follow that the victim, is mute too,” answered Ronald.

  “Well, sir, I heard nothing,” said the groom stubbornly.

  “Where is the dog now?”

  “I’ve shut him up in his other kennel.”